His Rebel Bride (Brothers in Arms Book 3) (27 page)

“Oh ho! That is serious,” Aric said. “You do love her, to desire her conversation and goodwill more than her body.”

Kieran shot him a killing glance. “Thank you for pointing out what a perfect idiot I am.”

“Nay, I think your choice a wise one,” he countered.

“It means naught,” Kieran declared. “For she will never take me into her heart.”

“She will.” Aric waved his fear away.

Kieran stood, his bench scraping across the floor in the echoing silence. “You do not understand. You cannot, for you never wondered if Gwenyth loved another.”

“If you recall, she pined for Sir Penley Fairfax when first we wed,” Aric reminded.

“That prick? Gwenyth did not
love
him. She sought a position as his wife, as a lady. Once Gwenyth surrendered to you, ’twas with her whole heart. And Averyl loved Drake almost from the start of their marriage.”

“Maeve cannot wed a dead man,” Aric pointed out.

“I do not believe he is dead in her heart,” Kieran argued. “And she blames me for his execution. She blames me for persuading her to be unfaithful to him and his memory.”

Aric paused, thoughtful. “Of course. ’Tis easier than facing the fact she cares for you.”

“How I wish that were true.” He sighed, sitting once more. “But your thinking is only wishful.”

“If you say,” Aric murmured, his tone clearly indicating he did not agree. “So, what will you do if she conceives? Will you leave Ireland and return for the babe, or stay?”

A good question, that. Kieran cast his gaze to the ceiling, but no answer came. Life away from Ireland had long been his goal. Now, the idea of parting from Maeve distressed him. To his shock, even this green, if wet, isle had a certain appeal. But living by Maeve’s side for years to come, his feelings unrequited while she pined for a dead man and plotted with the rebellion—’twould be pure misery. They would come to hate each other, as his parents had. Still, what if Aric was right?

“I know not what I will do if she conceives.” He sighed, then reached for his tankard, taking long swallows until the contents were gone. “I truly know not.”

* * * *

“The rebels come!” sounded a predawn shout, followed by a pounding on his door. “The rebels come now.”

Kieran sat up, instantly awake, heart pounding.

“Gather the men and rouse Lord Belford. I will be down shortly,” he shouted back even as he jumped from his solitary bed and pulled on his tunic and hose.

Colm knocked and stepped inside the chamber. “Lord Belford is awake, my lord.”

“Is everything else at the ready?”

“Aye. They finished digging yesterday morn.”

“Good.” Kieran sent the boy a grim smile. “How many men march our way?”

“Fifty or so, my lord.”

More than he had thought. “Send another pair of kernsmen to scout their progress. Then you must return to see to Langmore’s women and little Geralt. Gather them.”

Swallowing hard with a wide-eyed nod, Colm scurried off.

Muttering a curse, Kieran made his way to the bailey. Never did he recall a time when he dreaded the fight to come.

In the hall, Colm stood with Brighid against his side, her long, pale hair hanging around her. She looked more frightened child than budding woman. Jana cradled her son, seemingly made of stone. Fiona clutched Maeve’s hand in the portal of their chamber. His wife looked weak and pale.

He frowned at their apprehension. Did these women await soldiers fighting for their cause with fear?

Again, he looked at Maeve, wishing he could read in her face caring, knowledge of the coming battle—aught to guide him, give him hope. She merely looked strained and white. Still, he ached for her.

He was not so foolish to believe that she would ever love him. But he wanted her touch, her smile. Like a fever consuming him, he could not purge her from his system.

And for the past three days, she had scarce spoken to him, claiming illness. She stayed abed. Brighid whispered that she did naught but sleep and vomit. He’d gone to comfort her. Jana had turned him away—at Maeve’s request.

Kieran sighed, his gaze lingering on his wife. “Are you well, Maeve?”

She looked away. “Go fight your battle.”

The bitterness in her voice wracked him with frustration. What would he do with a wife who loathed him, while his heart belonged to her? He supposed this love of his explained his disinterest in the pretty peddler’s daughter. And he cursed. How had he come to this pitiful state?

He could do naught about it now, Kieran realized as he made his way down the circular steps to the bailey, where his army waited. To his shock, he saw all twenty-three Irish soldiers, plus a dozen new ones.

He turned to his guard. “Who are these men?”

Shane offered, “Beg pardon, milord, but they’re Irishmen who aren’t liking the rebels’ plans. The soldiers say you are a fair man, so they came to take their chances.”

Before he could reply, Aric strode up to his side, and a pair of guards ran up the lane, breathing hard.

“My lord, the rebels are bringin’ at least fifty men. They march on foot, and half carry blazing torches.”

Kieran began to sweat. ’Twas as he’d feared; the rebels would burn them out, uncaring of who died. No doubt they felt that if they had no fortification, the English encroachers should have none, either.

Such actions had a way of balancing the power in a war, but often at great cost of life. Women and children died in the twisted, burning flames. Did Flynn not see that? Not care that these plans meant the destruction of his home and his family?

Clearly, he cared not.

And Kieran wanted to spare Langmore and its people from the same fate Balcorthy had suffered all those years ago.

Whirling to the outnumbered army, he barked, “Be at the ready. You know our plan. Where are my archers?”

Four of the kern stepped forward, bows and arrows in hand, faces filled with determination. Aye, these four he trusted.

“Good. You will march first on foot to the top of Langmore’s battlements. While I ready the rest of the troops, you do your best to wound the rebel force as they come up the road. They must not reach Langmore’s walls.”

As the four men scrambled away, Kieran faced the rest. “Keep your weapons and your courage at the ready. Watch one another’s backs. We all have family here to protect.”

“Aye, my lord,” shouted the guard. The rest echoed.

“Does everyone remember the plan?”

All the faces, even the unfamiliar ones, registered understanding. Kieran disliked that complete strangers, with untested loyalties, knew his ploy, but all he could hope for now was that he’d earned his men’s trust and they did not plot to see him served up to the rebels for execution.

“When I give the command,” he said, “be quick. Our advantage will not last long.”

The men indicated their understanding by word or gesture, then made their way outside the gates of the castle.

Kieran followed, glancing at Aric. His pulse pounded. “Will this work, my friend?”

“I can think of no better plan.”

“Nor I,” murmured Kieran.

He did not take comfort in that fact. Either way, many would die this night. And he ached for Maeve, knowing how much she hated bloodshed. He found himself wishing he might stop it for her.

That was as impossible as seizing the moon.

Making his way to the side of the dirt lane leading up to Langmore, he jumped to the trench and crouched low, pulling the grass covering he and the soldiers had fashioned over the past days. He could only hope that with the rebellion’s small army, they had not the men to spare for spies. The sun had yet to prove more than a hazy gray light for the coming rebels. If he could surprise them, that would aid this deception.

Still, he feared they would see through this ruse and Langmore would lie in rubble within hours, only to be abandoned and forgotten like Balcorthy.

Shaking the maudlin thought away, he waited, listening. Finally, he heard footsteps, many sets of them, coming across the bridge, then heading up the road. The light of their torches reached him in the next moments. Kieran swallowed a lump of fear, recalling the heat, the screams, the stench of charred flesh.

The rebels marched closer, between the trenches on either side of the lane. Suddenly, the
whoosh
of arrows filled the air, mingling with the sounds of booted feet. Grunts and screams came moments later, followed by the sounds of men falling, men dying.

The remaining rebels did not stay to help the fallen. Instead, they charged toward the castle, away from the archers’ range, until they flattened themselves against the half-finished curtain wall for cover, below the battlements.

Kieran’s pulse raced. Sweat trickled from his temple.

“Now!” he shouted.

As one, the men tossed their grass coverings into the air and charged the rebels. Running over the fallen bodies, Kieran followed, looking into the shocked faces of his enemies.

The fight ensued. Sword in hand, he parried and thrust, his blade finding men’s vulnerable flesh repeatedly. At his side, Aric staved off two rebels with little difficulty. The Irishmen were ferocious, but Aric was by far more skilled.

The scent of blood tinged the dawn as the sky exploded with orange and pink. Sweat dripped into Kieran’s eyes.

The rebels who held torches made their way around the side of Langmore. A bolt of panic surged through him.

“Aric, the others!” he shouted.

“Go. I will keep these,” he said of the few uninjured rebels still in front of Langmore’s gate.

Nodding, he tapped three of his men on the shoulder and motioned one to follow him. The other two he sent around Langmore’s other side. The rest of his men stayed with Aric to aid the defense of Langmore’s gate.

Seconds later, he came upon a trio of miscreants, one with a torch. Two found the wooden scaffolds used to erect the castle wall. The third drew the torch near. The light from the fire touched his fevered grin.

Flynn!

How could the man destroy his own home? All his sisters had ever known? What if they died in this blaze?

Enraged at Flynn’s stupidity, Kieran charged him, sword poised. By his side, Langmore’s soldiers followed and dispatched one of the other rebels to his maker. Kieran dealt quickly with a blade to the gut of the second rebel.

Now he stood with Flynn, and he itched to plant his blade deep into the miscreant’s belly.

But Maeve would forever hate him.

Instead, he watched as Flynn threw his torch on the scaffolding’s dry wood and reached for a dagger at his thigh.

“Put out that fire!” he shouted at his soldier, then rushed toward Flynn.

O’Shea tried to dodge him, but Kieran was faster, his sense of purpose so urgent. He caught Flynn about the shoulders and tackled him to the ground. Not surprisingly, Flynn struggled and cursed.

Kieran punched him in the stomach.

Flynn grunted, then glared at him through eyes of hate. “Don’t be tellin’ me you think you can change our victory.”

At his sneer, Kieran pinned him roughly to the ground. “I have stopped you.”

With a shrug, he said, “Such matters not, you English maggot. The rest of the English fortifications will be so damaged we will have no trouble taking Langmore later. Don’t you be forgettin’ that.”

“I would not be so confident,” Kieran returned. “Every Englishman in the Pale knew of your plans. All are prepared to meet your forces.”

A stunned expression transformed Flynn’s face. The rebel leader began to struggle, kicking, growling. Kieran punched him in the jaw.

Flynn went slack beneath him.

“The fire is out, my lord.”

Kieran looked up to see the man had trampled out the budding flames with his shirt and boots. “Good work.”

Coming to his feet, Kieran looked about for other rebels. Finding none, he bent down to lift Flynn and hoisted the man to his shoulder with a grunt.

“Go to the others and help them if need be,” Kieran ordered the soldier.

With a crisp “aye,” the lanky Irishman disappeared around the front of Langmore’s gate. With a tired sigh, Kieran followed.

At the keep’s door, Aric and the others had subdued the rebels, but fight still burned in their eyes.

The fight turned to shock at the sight of their leader slung over his shoulder.

“Nay!” shouted one rebel.

“Aye,” he yelled back. “You are defeated, and I take you all prisoner.”

With the help of Aric and his soldiers, they led the defeated group of rebels into Langmore and down to the depths of the dungeon. There, they put the men into groups. The wounded were kept together, and Kieran ordered two of his men to find the healer, Ismenia, and bring the old woman there.

Flynn he put by himself at the far end of the dim hall, dropping him on a worn wooden bunk with a thud. The man groaned.

Kieran backed out of the small cell, closing the heavy wooden door behind him. He signaled the guard to secure the lock with the key.

Satisfied that Flynn could not escape and the rebellion had ended that night, Kieran made his way upstairs. A need to see Maeve, assure himself of her well-being, tore into his gut. His mind said the rebels had not breached Langmore’s walls. Still, he worried.

Inside Kieran’s chamber, Colm stood over the O’Shea sisters. Brighid had fallen asleep at his side. Jana held a mewling babe, seeking to comfort him with a soothing voice. Fiona sat next to her eldest sister, wringing her hands. Maeve stood away from the others, stiffly, by the fire.

’Twas to her he went first.

“It is over,” he said. “You are safe.”

Maeve turned his way, cold gaze studying him. Her pale, distraught features concerned Kieran. Unable to resist, he reached out for her, placing a gentle hand upon her shoulder.

Stiffening, she moved away from his touch. “How many are dead this morn?”

He held in a sigh. What would she say when he told her Flynn was his prisoner and that the Palesmen would likely want his execution in Dublin soon?

She would surely hate him forever.

“I know not yet. Perhaps thirty.”

Maeve drew in a sharp breath. “I suppose you are disappointed the number is not greater. ’Tis a sad day when you do not shed enough innocent blood.”